


The Hood

by TheSeabear



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Robin Hood AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 19:30:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSeabear/pseuds/TheSeabear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Kirk returns from the Crusades to find his father murdered and his lands seized by Prince Marcus, half-brother of the king. The people of England are slowly being bled dry by the prince's greed and cruelty. Armed with a vow for vengeance, a sword, and a bow, Jim enters into a new crusade: to help the commoners and hurt Marcus's treasury as much as possible in the process. </p><p>Spock, Kirk's childhood friend and fellow aristocrat, has been taken in by Prince Marcus as an advisor. For the past several years, he has used his position to the best of his ability to influence the prince in order to help the people, stopping multiple executions. When a hooded outlaw and his band step over the line and push Marcus too far, Spock knows nothing he says will spare the people anymore. He leaves, disguised in the dead of night… and is robbed by someone with a very familiar voice.</p><p>ENTIRE WORK IS IN THE PROCESS OF BEING REWRITTEN. - Sept 2015</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Two Fingers for Luck (Prologue)

CLACK!

“Too wide!”

CLACK! _THWACK!_

“OW!” James—Jim—Kirk stumbled back, shaking his throbbing hand. “That wasn’t fair!”

“Attacking the sword hand of an opponent is, in fact, considered ‘fair’ by contemporary dueling standards.” His black-haired companion twirled the wooden practice sword. “In addition, it rarely falls on your conscience to consider what is fair; more often than not, you prefer to cheat.”

Jim grinned and launched forward, swinging hard in a well-practiced pattern. His friend leaned back just in time to avoid getting hit in the chin. Then his arms windmilled ungracefully and he toppled backward.

“Ha!" Jim crowed, standing over him and pointing his practice sword at the boy’s throat. "Surrender, you loser."

The boy raised one spectacularly communicative eyebrow, his face impassive. “The surrender of life is nothing to sinking down into acknowledgment of inferiority.”

“What does that even mean, Spock?”

“It means, Jim, death before subservience or dishonor.”

“I’ll spare you if you get rid of that ridiculous haircut,” Jim offered. Spock narrowed his eyes, but seemed to decide the suggestion wasn’t worth a reply and ignored Jim with supreme indifference to inspect the stick he had tripped over. 

Jim rolled his eyes and switched the sword to his other hand, reaching down to help the tall boy stand. Spock dusted himself off, managing to look completely composed in seconds.

“Food?”

“Indeed.” They left the field for Riverside Castle, its green banners waving on a high breeze. A maid threw open a window to shake out bedsheets from a set of chambers set aside for important guests. Jim had long since dubbed that section of the castle as ‘Spock’s rooms.’ Spock’s mother was visiting with Jim’s mother, Lady Winona. It was a biannual trip that came with the turn of the seasons and lasted a month. So for two months out of the year, Jim and Spock stuck like burrs to each other’s sides.

“I wonder if they will have pie,” Spock mused. Jim tilted his head in consideration. He stuck his nose in the air and tried to smell, but the wind was in the wrong direction. On a warm day, the cooks could fill the entirety of the Kirk estate with scents of the most delicious food.

“Dunno,” Jim said. He cast a side-glance at his friend and quirked a smile, holding out his fore- and middle fingers together. “Two fingers for luck?”

Spock looked at him and offered a small smile. They touched fingers.

“Race you,” Jim said seconds before taking off towards the kitchens. They ran through the pasture and across the icy stream that gave the town its name. Winona and Amanda would kill them for kicking mud up on their clothes.

Spock won.

…

_Five days later_

The fields and forests that surrounded the town of Riverside rolled past in dappled portraits of light and shadow. Snow was melting, leaving behind soggy land and damp-looking vegetation. The castle had long since faded from view.

Spock leaned back in his seat and faced his mother, who gazed out the window, lost in thought. As per their usual routine, they were going home one week after the last freeze. The grip of winter was fading away.

He sighed and thought of their conversation from earlier that morning. Jim, recalling an on-going argument, had maintained that Spock’s name was silly. 

_“I’m sort of related to the king, you know,” he’d told Spock at breakfast. “Tenth in line for the throne, or something like that. If I’m ever made king, I’ll knight you and change your name.”_

In revenge, Spock had called his friend ‘James’ for the remainder of the morning. Jim hated being called by his full name, but Spock thought there was something very lyrical about it. Mostly, Jim just hated it because he had declared Spock’s full name unpronounceable and he could not use it as freely as Spock used ‘James.’ 

Spock had been named after his mother’s favorite scholar, a foreign philosopher famous for his treatises on morality and pacifism. Apparently the church had taken her aside on the day of his baptism to try to persuade her to use a name less ‘devil spoken.’ But Amanda would not be swayed and they did not attend church with any regularity anyway.

It was no surprise to anyone when Spock grew to cling more to the books in his family’s library than to hunting dogs or horses. He considered it his greatest achievement to have taught Jim Kirk, heir to Riverside, how to play chess. Jim was his opposite. Which was why, three years ago, it came as a great surprise when Jim actually checkmated him. A week later, Spock beat Jim in a pretend duel. It seemed, after twelve years, they were finally rubbing off on one another.

And it would be another six months before he saw Jim again. He looked out the window, feeling forlorn, and began to plan a letter to his friend in his mind.


	2. The Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim returns from the Crusades and gets way more than he bargained for.

Jim breathed and tasted English air. All the way, on his journey north, he’d judged time and distance by nearness to the English Channel. The narrow strip of water was now firmly behind him. In less than a week, he would be home. Less than five minutes ago, he had entered Whitwick, the largest settlement before the township of Riverside. 

Armed with the clothes on his back, a small belt purse, rations for another two days of travel, and the sword that had been his constant companion for the last six years, he entered the crowded streets and smiled as the sounds of the English language washed over him.

“Five pennies, mum.”

“Bless my soul, I don’t believe it.”

“And then I told her—”

“Thief!”

Jim spun towards the shout, hand going to the hilt of his sword. A flash of blonde hair caught his attention as a boy darted over a cart of hay, knocking a large portion of it into the dirty street. He looked more like a scarecrow than a person, struggling to free himself from the mess of straw and mud.

“Get back here, mongrel! Sheriff’ll have you hanged for this!”

Making a snap decision, Jim followed the boy, keeping the blonde head in sight as he stuck his fingers into his belt purse and dug out his father’s signet ring.

Two men with black tunics surged into the crowds from the other end of the street. Jim picked up his pace, jogging behind several vendor’s carts on the side of the street until he got ahead of the boy. When the child went to dart past him, Jim grabbed the back of his threadbare shirt and shoved him back into a stall directly to his left, startling the horse inside.

“That way!” he yelled, pointing the up the street. He made sure the ring caught the light, twinkling on his finger. The black-clad figures looked at him and then shoved peasants out of the way, charging off down the lane.

He blocked the stall with his body, making sure no one had seen him push the boy inside it. A cough startled him from his left, over the chest-high partition of the stall. 

“You got a reason for dallyin’ ‘round my horse?” a burly, dust-covered man asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Ah, no,” Jim said in a bright, apologetic voice, giving the man a friendly smile. Behind his legs, the boy moved; Jim kicked him. The man raised a bushy eyebrow. The boy shuffled again and Jim kept talking, trying to cover the noise with his voice. “Actually, yes. How much?”

“For what?”

“The horse.”

Both eyebrows went up. 

The man eyed his horse, then his gaze drifted to the signet ring and the jeweled pommel of Jim’s sword. He crossed his brawny arms. “That ring you’ve got should cover it.”

“Try again,” Jim said flatly. 

“Fine,” the man grunted. He sniffed uncaringly, giving the horse an appraising glance. “20 shillings.”

“What?” Jim snorted. “It’s not worth 10.”

“Then it’s not for sale.”

The boy pushed at Jim’s legs and he kicked again, gritting his teeth. “15 shillings.”

“20.”

“15.”

“No sale.”

“Fine.” Feeling robbed, he swung the rucksack containing rations off his shoulder and peeled open a hidden compartment. Silver shillings and gold crowns weighed heavily in his hand as he counted out twenty pieces.

“Thank you,” he said, watching the man check the coins and feeling absolutely no gratitude at all. 

“Bloody nobles, trying to walk all over us when it’s us that’ve got to pay taxes,” he heard the man mumble. “Take the beast and get out of my hair.”

“Fine,” Jim muttered. When the man had turned to walk away, he stepped back into the stall and looked down at the little boy. “You cost me a fortune just now.”

“S’not my fault you’ve a poor eye for horseflesh,” the boy retorted stubbornly. He couldn’t have been older than thirteen. 

“What did you steal?”

“I didn’t steal nothin’!” Jim fixed him with a hard stare and the boy clenched his teeth. “It’s a bit of tart, not even somethin’ to fuss over.”

Jim looked at him calculatingly, taking in the child’s sunken cheeks and the defensive hunch of his bony shoulders. There was no reason to ask why he’d stolen the food. He’d seen enough children sickened by lack of sustenance and shelter, orphaned, abandoned, or in the unwilling service of manipulative masters. The unspeakable abuses those men had done to the children deserved nothing less than the deepest circle of Hell. 

He exhaled, forcing the images from his mind. “Do you have a family?” he asked. 

Jim saw the kid’s angry eyes dart to the side just in time and managed to catch the boy’s shirt as he tried to flee. Small fists beat at his arms and chest. The boy twisted and writhed.

“Let me go!” he yelled, clawing at Jim’s hands. He wriggled, trying to extract himself from his shirt. Jim gripped his shoulders and maneuvered him against the back of the stall, with the horse blocking the view in from the street. “Get off me! Help!”

“Stop!” Jim said sharply, glancing around to make sure no one had heard. “I won’t hurt you. Stop!”

“No!”

“Damn it,” Jim hissed as the boy made another wild attempt to escape and ended up slipping in manure. “Kid, I’m trying to help! Why won’t you settle down?”

“’cuz I’m hungry!” the boy yelled back. His glare was murderous. He tried to fight off Jim’s hands again and Jim shoved him back and down, so he was sitting haphazardly on the filthy stall floor. “You wi’v your purses and jewels, you’ve got no right to look down on me. I’ve got sisters who haven’t eaten in two days, you nasty, inbred piece of —”

Jim knelt down and slapped a hand over the boy’s mouth before he could draw attention to the stall. The horse snorted and shifted away behind him.

“Be quiet. I’ll take you to your family and ensure the sheriff’s men don’t find you. Get up.” The boy regarded him balefully, but stood. “Where do you live?”

“Get off! I’ll get home by myself,” the boy said bitterly. He spat at Jim. Saliva landed thickly on his cheek; he dipped his head, wiping it off on his shoulder without taking his eyes off the child.

“No. I didn’t save your neck just to let you go get yourself arrested,” Jim told him, turning to attend the horse. “Come on.”

The horse’s lead in his hand, he took the boy’s shoulder and directed him to walk so his body was hidden by the bulk of the horse’s chest. The kid tried to run several times. When it became clear that Jim wouldn’t let him flee, he sulked. The boy led him around the village for the better part of two hours. 

As they passed homes, carts, carriages, shops, and stables, Jim was distracted by what he saw. Slow, bone-deep weariness seemed to weigh on each person. Tax collectors wearing the black garb of the sheriff’s guards entered and exited buildings, carrying bundles of cloth, bags of wool, and barrels that seemed to be only partially full—the currency of the poor. 

“What is this?” he asked the boy as the stepped aside to let a carriage pass. “I thought the Saladin tithe was over.”

The Saladin tithe was instituted by the church to fund the war to free Jerusalem from the Moorish sultan, Saladin. But the Crusade was nearing its end. After years of fighting, the effort was drawing to its natural close, whether the Holy Land was won back or not. It could not continue. The tithe, once a vital factor for victory, was no longer implemented. 

But this collection was different. For one, the tithe was collected by priests and bishops. These, however, were not men of the cloth. They were lawkeepers. Jim watched a pair of them pass with unease. By all accounts, watchmen and guards were little more than mercenaries, much like the men with whom he had gone to battle. For another, those bags and crates and barrels looked like much more than the standard ten percent. There was no reason to increase a tax to supply a war that was nearly over. 

The boy didn’t answer. If anything, his glare became more resentful, his angry footsteps heavier. They wandered for another hour. After the boy tried to double back and go up a street they’d already been through, Jim realized the kid was hoping Jim would get frustrated and leave him alone. 

“I’m your shadow until you get home,” Jim told him. “You’re not getting rid of me.”

“Rich and annoying,” the boy bit out. He kicked sullenly at the dirt. “Fine. Come on.”

The sun had already set by the time they reached a small community built on the banks of a small stream. When the boy stopped in front of a small dwelling with a thatched roof that had seen better days, someone shouted. A second later, the door flew open and a stout, sturdy-looking woman hurried out, already fussing.

“Where have you been?” she fretted at the boy. As she approached, she seemed to notice Jim hovering over the boy’s shoulder and stopped dead. Her face lost its color. “Sir, I don’t know what he’s done, I swear we’ll make it right, I promise, please—”

“Martha?” a man stepped into the doorway and saw Jim. “Sir, can we help you?”

“I’m just here to return your son.”

The boy stalked towards his mother, looking every bit as stubborn and dejected as any thirteen-year-old had the right to be. “What have you done now?” the woman – Martha – scolded.

“Nothin’, honest.”

“Don’t you lie to me!” She gave him a good swat and he yelped, jumping. 

“Was just a tart!” he said as she aimed another swipe. “Promise!”

Martha’s mouth drew into a flat, tense line, fear in her wide eyes as her gaze darted to where Jim stood. Her mouth opened, then closed. She pushed the boy behind her. “Get inside. Now.”

Her husband came forward, smacking the back of the boy’s head as he passed. “What happened?” he asked, voice and shoulders taut. His eyes fell on the ring on Jim’s hands and his arm went around his wife protectively.

“He was seen stealing from a baker,” Jim told them. “I got to him before the sheriff’s men could catch him.”

He didn’t mention the horse. From the sight of their clothes and home, it was obvious this family didn’t have a single shilling, let alone 20. Peasants rarely had access to coinage. Their money was sweat and hard work, food and cloth. The ring on his hand felt heavy. 

“Please, sir,” Martha said, gripping her husband’s hand tightly. “Don’t turn him in. We don’t have money, our daughter is sick—”

Jim held up a hand to stop her. “I won’t say a word. I just wanted to see to it that he was safe.”

“Our thanks, sir,” the husband said. He looked at the horse. “Are you travelling?”

“Yes, to Riverside.”

The pair exchanged a look. Martha’s lips pinched and she glanced away. Her husband shifted awkwardly. He licked his lips and cleared his throat. “Would you stay the night, sir? We—It’s not much. Not—” He coughed again, his face pinching in discomfiture. “There’s no inn in the village. We would be honored to have you as a guest.”

Jim paused. This family did not have the means to host a stranger. Unless his eyes deceived him, the shack was a single room and the boy had mentioned siblings. 

And home was close. After years, it was so close, weighing in his chest like an anchor that refused to lift until he saw those familiar walls, banners caught high in a crisp wind. But he knew refusing would be an insult. Resigning himself to an uncomfortable night, he said, feeling guilty, “Is there a place for my horse? I need to see that he’s tended to.”

“Out back. I’ll take him,” the husband said, taking the lead. “I am Sam, the miller.”

“Jim Kirk.”

Martha took his elbow, her touch light and uncertain at first, and turned to guide him into the house. He came, obediently. Inside, a tiny fire lit the back wall in bright gold; he smelled some kind of soup coming from the iron cauldron perched over the flames. Two girls huddled together, both shivering, their faces pale and drawn as they watched him enter. The boy sat opposite. He scowled at Jim as he walked in.

“That’s Anna, and Mary, and you’ve already met our son. He’s not much, but he’s all we have,” Martha said.

“I never did get a name,” Jim said, directing this at the boy, who pointedly ignored him. “Fine. You’ll be Not Much, then.”

“He’s Walter, after his grandfather,” Sam said as he came inside.

“Dinner will be a bit light, I’m afraid,” Martha said, peeking into a tall cupboard. She dug out a cloth-wrapped bundle and brought it over to the floor where her children sat. When she unwrapped it, Jim saw two plates and a single bowl. His chest tightened.  
“Sit, please,” Sam told him, smiling. Jim took care not to take the space closest to the fire and sat instead against the wall next to Mary, who sneezed.

“Here now, dear,” Martha murmured soothingly. She ladled soup into the bowl, handing it to Jim. He took it, the tightness in his chest increasing, and sipped as quickly as he could. It was mostly water. When he finished, he handed it back with thanks. Dinner passed uneventfully as the bowl was passed around. Even though he smiled encouragingly, the two girls seemed terrified to even look at him. After Martha went outside to clean the dish and the pot and Sam put the children to bed in a corner piled with thin blankets, Jim sat by the fire, feeling hollow. 

“Walter,” Sam sighed as he sunk down next to Jim, “is becoming reckless.”

“I think all boys experience a bit of wildness at some point,” Jim allowed, trying not to think of how thin the boy’s shoulder had felt under his hand. “I believe my mother would call it a stage.”

 _Or hunger,_ he thought privately. Quiet filled the small space, broken by the sounds of the children coughing and snuffling into their blankets. Martha came back inside and sat in the corner with a dowel she drew out of her apron, carefully beginning to spin loose fibers into yarn. 

“I saw men collecting today,” Jim said, remembering his earlier confusion. “What are they doing?”

Sam sighed. “New law,” he said. “A quarter tax on all property and movables.”

“Why?” Jim asked. 

The miller shrugged. “King Christopher’s brother ordered it. Prince Marcus. There hasn’t been much explanation, but rumor has it he wants to continue the war against France. King Phillip is out of the way, off with Christopher in the Holy Land.”

That was certainly true. Not only were the kings gone, but also their allies, English, French, and otherwise. Even the Pope had dedicated all resources to the effort. But another war? He—and other knights, soldiers, and noblemen—had left, having fulfilled their duties to the crown and sensed the end drawing close. But they were the minority. How would Marcus funnel enough manpower into the Continent to overthrow the French on their own soil? And to gain what? Economic power?

He exhaled. War. It seemed the hallmark of a memorable ruler to host conflict. And yet, for all of the nation-building, as they called it, and all of the conquest, there seemed very little direct benefit to be gleaned from bloodshed. 

Now here, caught in the middle of not one, but two pointless conflicts, people were suffering. “How bad is it?” he asked lowly. 

Sam was quiet for a moment. He glanced at the corner where his family curled up together, one of the girls now nestled into her mother’s lap. “It hasn’t been easy,” he said at last. “The church is helping. They’ve got alms to distribute to those that need it most. The rest of us…”

It seemed to take a moment for Sam to summon the resolution to speak. “Drought took a quarter of the stock this year," he said. "Less grain, less flour. That’s how I pay my rent.” He paused, but Jim didn’t interrupt. After a moment, he continued, staring at the dirt floor, “No rent, no mill. I’m out of a job, my daughters are sick. My wife’s got another one on the way.” 

Sam looked at Jim, a man out of options, out of pride, and very aware of it. “Walter could be the last straw. I can’t look after him. It’s only a matter of time before he goes too far and this family can’t take that kind of trouble right now.”

Sam swallowed, looking down at his feet. “What do I do? He’s my son.”

Jim felt uncomfortable in the face of the other man’s distress, as though he were witnessing something too personal. He had no right—no desire—to impose. 

He meant to say ‘I don’t know’ or ‘I’m sorry.’ What came out was, “I could take him.”

_Damn it._

If Sam’s expression were surprised, he could only imagine how his own face must look. “I—” Sam said, his voice faltering, “He’s a handful; you don’t need—”

“No, I mean it.” _Shut up,_ he told himself. _Shut up._ “I’ll take him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unanimous vote to keep the bridge crew! Working on the next chapter now. I’d already started working on this before the comments came in, so Much stays. I like him. If anyone is curious, the date of this story is around 1190, during the King’s Crusade. 
> 
> Also, I’m sure you’ve noticed I’m not updating as quickly as I usually do. Sorry!! I’ve been working on a proposal for a conference in the spring, so I’m researching like a mad woman. I hate to push this into the backseat, but I think it’ll be at least a month before things start quieting down again.


	3. Save the People

The commissioner’s voice echoed softly in the richly decorated room in Nottingham Castle. The space was occupied by a large table inlaid with gold and marble, surrounded by more than a dozen men, who sat listening. Three magnificent candelabras hung over the length of the table, unlit. Early morning light filtered through a large window behind the tallest chair, in which sat a man clothed in sumptuous red velvet, with silk embroidery around the neck and down the sleeves and a heavy gold clasp anchoring a matching embroidered cape around his shoulders. 

Prince Marcus shifted, leaning forward on his elbows. His ring-laden fingered entwined, hard eyes on the man delivering the report. 

“… current scheme will not provide for the projected goal by the end of the annum. If the tax is increased for all areas under the parish overseen from Nottingham to 30%, the goal could be reached within the set margins, as—”

“Do it,” Marcus interrupted shortly. The commissioner, mouth still open to speak, looked up from the pile of records scattered around him. He closed his mouth and jotted down a note on the pages in front of him, nodding to himself. 

“Sire,” said a new voice from Marcus’ right. The prince turned his eyes on his personal advisor. 

“Spock,” Marcus acknowledged. The black-haired man leaned forward. 

“As we have examined in all previous discussions this year, the impact of the drought is wide reaching and severe,” Spock said. “Resources are spread thin with the low agricultural output and many of the small villages and hamlets continue to struggle to rebound from the Saladin tax.”

“Your point, Spock,” Marcus ordered. 

“Human capital is just as important, if not more so, than funds accumulated through the tax,” Spock said. “The welfare of the people directly correlates with the health of the nation. Instituting an increased taxation scheme on top of the current food shortage could lead to disastrous losses in the long term.”

Marcus sat back in his chair, rubbing his hand across his mouth contemplatively. The council members watched him in silence. “Very well,” he said at last. “We will continue with the quarter tax for another three months and review the situation again then.”

Spock breathed silently, calm and austere, but relieved. The council meeting continued. Each advisor took turns to give their evaluations of the war, the situation with France, the Church’s stance in the current climate. The new sheriff of Nottingham scrutinized each as they spoke, his eyes dark and calculating. Spock watched him. 

The sheriff had appeared seemingly from thin air. For three years, Spock had served Prince Marcus, traveling with him as his aide and advisor. Never, in all that time, had he seen or heard of Khan Noonien Singh. 

Despite his foreign name, Khan was very English. And though he seemed to be a newcomer to royal presence—Spock could find no record of him in any court or clerical documents—Marcus treated him as a partner, or a trusted counselor, closer even than Spock. 

Since Khan's arrival, Spock had found his mission difficult to complete. In the past four months, he had failed to stop seven arrests, two public tortures, and the execution of a church official accused of withholding money. As the Church was exempt from taxation and practically sovereign in its own right, intervening should have been a simple task. Yet Khan and Marcus appeared to have an agenda without reference to justice or legality. 

The meeting came to a close. Marcus stood and everyone followed. They made their bows and began to file out. Spock watched Marcus and Khan walk closely together, heads bowed in conversation. He turned and left in the opposite direction, stowing away information from the meeting to meditate on later. 

His chambers were situated on the eastern side of the fortress, with a view of the sunrise through the tall, narrow window that looked more like an arrowslit than an adequate portal to the world outside. There was very little in the way of material possessions that he counted precious, so his living arrangements were sparse and impersonal. 

Behind the closed door of his bedchamber, Spock came to a stop. His writing desk, an ancient piece of furniture, waited with a small stack of correspondence and reports. The floor was covered with a thick rug of Moorish origin, which he preferred to use for meditation. At times, as he sat there, he imagined the land it must have come from, with the warm shine of the sun and mountains of orange and red. The image helped him fight off the cold, rainy English nights. 

While he had been raised with thick stone walls, cold flagstone floors, and drafty windows, he had never grown accustomed to the chill. As though the thought had decreased the temperature in the room, Spock felt a cool nip against his skin and moved to pull the curtains wider, letting in a thin strip of light. 

Out beyond the walls of the castle, he saw the streets fade into dirt roads, churned with mud and pitted by cart wheels and horse hooves. Straw and stick houses sat in neat rows, where families shared the shelter with their animals, giving the land a look of barely ordered squalor. 

Though he saw it every day and sought above all to lessen their struggles, Spock could not comprehend or fully appreciate the depth of their poverty. With every passing day, his task, his personal duty to intervene on their behalf, seemed impossible. 

A memory suddenly occurred to him and he was taken back to a sandy-haired youth with a toothy grin. _Two fingers for luck?_ For a moment, nostalgia of the kind he was usually disdainful came over him. Jim. 

Jim, who did not believe in the impossible, who insisted on the most outrageous solutions, whose chess skills became so wildly innovative, he finally beat Spock. 

For a long moment, Spock stood stock-still, overcome by an an aching wish to see his childhood friends and the sunlit castle where they used to play, knowing both person and place were long, long gone.

…

Six years. For six years, he had walked foreign roads, explored ancient cities overtaken by new inhabitants, witnessed mountains and coastlines that stole his breath. Now he saw trees he used to climb, bridges he jumped from into streams saturated with childhood memories. 

Six years later and he was home. 

The roads were deeply rutted and spread wide onto the neighboring land. Jim frowned, guiding his horse around a large hole that could easily lame an animal. His family maintained the lands around Riverside. For a moment, he thought about what Sam had told him. What kind of tax would it take to cause the Kirk estate to sacrifice obligations like road upkeep?

The sound of a rock ricocheting off a tree made him look around. Walter, arms crossed angrily across his scrawny chest, trudged along behind him. He kicked at another rock, but slipped on the mud and stumbled. 

“Sure you don’t want to ride in front of me?” Jim asked, knowing what the answer would be. 

The boy grumbled. 

“Suit yourself, Much,” he said. The previous day, he’d spent a couple of hours trying to get the boy to respond to him. Finally, he’d resorted to calling him ‘Not Much’ again. When the kid finally pitched a fit, Jim determined ‘Not Much’ got a better reaction than ‘Walter,’ except that was too long for a good nickname. So now the boy was Much. 

“When we cross this bend, you’ll be able to see Riverside Castle,” he said, struggling not to nudge the horse into going faster. “There’s a break in the trees… here.”

He pulled the horse to a stop. There it was, walls painted with sunlight and the shadows of clouds. It took him a long second to see that something was wrong. 

The fields were dry and barren. The soil, once rich, looked parched and brittle, crumbling in clumps. Wind stirred up eddies of dust that rose and fell sluggishly. No banners waved from the turrets of the castle. Jim craned his neck to see the village, but the trees were too thick. 

“Come on,” he said. Much, who was skulking back, determined not to see the sight Jim wanted to show him, looked up at his short tone. 

“What’s wrong?” Much asked, affecting a suspicious tone. His curiosity got the better of him and he leaned up on tiptoe to see over the bushes to the castle. 

“Come here,” Jim said, reaching down. He grabbed Much’s arm and pulled him up onto the horse. The boy squirmed, but settled into a reluctant, tense stillness when Jim kicked the horse into a trot. The trees on either side of the road, which had stirred up fond memories before, now seemed like prison walls, blocking him off from what he needed to see. 

For several tense moments, with Much awkwardly positioned on the saddle in front of him, they rode in silence. Through the thinning trees, he saw the dense shapes of buildings and fences. As they drew nearer, he saw a familiar scattering of farms, dappled with little houses and barns. The trees receded and Jim directed the horse off the road, down a drove, where sheep and cattle had trampled tall grasses to form a wide path. 

For all his indifference, Much had a hard time containing himself, looking left and right and leaning forward to see over the horse’s head. Jim grimly observed each dwelling as they passed. The gardens were wilted and overgrown with weeds. Several thatched roofs had collapsed, but no one was home to fix them. 

After a while, the drove met the street that made up the village proper. A well stood off to one side and Jim was relieved to see people milling around it, carrying buckets. As the horse clopped into the open, several faces turned to look at them. He dismounted. 

It was a few moments before anyone spoke. Then—

“Jim!”

“Henry! Henry, come quick! It’s Jim Kirk!”

“Geoffrey! You won’t believe it—it’s Jim! Jim’s back!”

People ran from every direction. Their voices—confused, excited, relieved—formed one loud cacophony as they crowded in. The old woman who had threatened to beat him after he trampled her roses was crying. Her lined, sunken face twisted as she sobbed, smiling. Geoffrey, the blacksmith who used to let him watch as he made horseshoes, clapped his shoulder hard. 

“Good to have you back, son,” he shouted over the noise. Three or four young girls slipped through the throng like fish and threw their arms around his waist, laughing as they clung. Much, unable to escape, was pressed in by the mass, looking bewildered. 

When everyone had touched, hugged, and cried over him enough to settle down, Jim looked at them all. “What’s going on?” he asked. “The fields, the castle—” 

He looked up towards the fortress. From this side, most of the lower half was hidden behind houses and shops. But he could see black scorch marks around the windows, as though tongues of flame and billowing smoke had licked the stone. Most of the glass had exploded outward, leaving bits of wood and iron hanging limply from broken hinges. 

Several minutes had passed before he realized the crowd had gone quiet. Everyone was looking at him as he surveyed the wreckage of his childhood home. He glanced at them. 

“C’mon, lad,” Geoffrey said, patting his shoulder again, guiding him away from the rest. The women pulled their children away. Much, looking uncomfortable, seemed to decide he was better off with Jim and followed quickly. 

“What happened, Geoffrey?” he asked lowly in the shadow of the smithy. 

The big man braced an arm on his anvil and looked suddenly twice his age. “I’m sorry, Jim. I’m so sorry.” 

Jim watched him, knowing what he was about to hear, but unable to speak. 

“George and Winona did everything they could, taking the brunt of the tax. When the sheriff started arresting those who couldn’t pay, they brought all of us to the castle. We were alright for a while.” Geoffrey exhaled hard. “Wasn’t long before it turned into a fight. Marcus took up residence in Nottingham to oversee the siege personally. They set fire to the grain stores after about a week and we had to flee. The whole castle was in flames. We never found George. Winona made it out, but Leonard couldn’t save her. The smoke did the worst damage; we lost half the village. Lady Grayson, too.”

Jim’s head jerked up. He stared at Geoffrey in horror. “Amanda? Amanda Grayson?”

Geoffrey nodded. “She was visiting. George and Winona tried to make her leave, but…” 

His chest pulled tight, a painful burn in his throat as if he were choking on a knife. His jaw clenched hard, fighting the crush of pain. He couldn’t breathe. It seemed to swallow him. 

The corners of his vision clouded, blurring with tears that fell without his permission. He wished Geoffrey would turn away. He shut his eyes hard and turned away, trying to wrestle his writhing, screaming emotions into check. A large, heavy hand gently seized his shoulder. 

When he opened his eyes, wiping tears on his sleeve, it wasn’t Geoffrey who stood there. Tall, broad, and looking gentler than Jim had ever seen him, Leonard McCoy watched him with concern. 

“Bones?” he choked. 

“Hey, kid.” McCoy’s hand slid up to roughly grip the back of Jim’s neck. The gesture was so familiar, he was caught between a laugh and a cry. The slightly hysterical sound dangled in the silent smithy. Bones gave him as long as he needed to compose himself. When he managed to dash the last of his tears away, his hand fell away. 

“It’s gonna be alright, Jim,” he said. “C’mon.”

The roads were mercifully empty. Geoffrey must have told them to clear out for a while; he was thankful. 

“It’s good to see you, Jim,” McCoy said, his usually gruff, sarcastic voice low and comforting. 

“Yeah, you too,” Jim said hoarsely. He cleared his throat and looked around again. Several of the old stone buildings bore signs of the siege as well. The thatched roofs did not fully cover the black burns and charred wooden frames. 

They walked toward the castle, but instead of crossing the bridge to enter, Bones took him to the right, where Jim used to do sword practice with Spock. 

_Spock._

“Bones,” he said. There was an urgent note in his voice, choked with pain. 

“Yeah?”

“Spock. Was Spock—?”

“No,” McCoy said. “No, he hasn’t been here since you left.”

His tone was bitter. McCoy and Spock had never gotten along. McCoy did his apprenticeship with the elderly physician who traveled up and down the Great North Road, tending to the villagers and nobles who lived in the area. As a teenager, Jim gave McCoy a full-time occupation, constantly landing himself into trouble that involved injuries. At some point, Jim started calling him Bones and it stuck. Spock, disdainful of McCoy’s metaphors and dramatic exaggerations, became even more stern and coolly withdrawn whenever they were forced into each other’s presence. 

They walked into the practice field, McCoy leading the way. It was the only space that seemed tended to, as though someone devotedly maintained it every day. When they came to a stop, Jim saw why. 

A long row of crosses stood embedded in the dirt. This time he was able to hold the tears at bay, but he felt the burning pressure. Bones stood to the side. “We put one up for George, too. It’s empty, but…”

But it was the right thing to do. Crosses weren’t for the dead. They didn’t care. Crosses were for the living. It gave them a place to remember, to mourn. It gave Jim a place to remember and mourn a family he hadn’t known he had lost. 

Somewhere behind them, someone snuffled wetly. Jim turned and saw Much, standing several feet away. His normally petulant look was pinched and sad. When he caught Jim looking at him, he spun away, rubbing his face on his shirt. Jim turned back, giving him his space. 

Each cross was engraved with a name. He stepped forward and rubbed his thumb across his mother’s name. To her right was George. To her left, Amanda. The others were maids, cooks, and villagers he hadn’t thought of in years. His father’s personal servant was at the end. He took a moment to thank them silently. The words—unsaid, but taking up space in his throat nonetheless—did nothing to assuage his pain. 

He cleared his throat one last time and clapped a thankful hand on Bones’ arm. They started walking back. Jim discretely made sure Much came with them. “How have things been since…?”

Bones shrugged. “We get by. Everyone helps out if the going gets too tough. I have a daughter now,” he said, smiling. Jim smiled back. It felt strange, like flexing muscles that had fallen asleep. But it was genuine. “She’s five. Joanna, after Camille’s mother.”

“How is Camille?” Jim asked. McCoy had gotten married just before Jim had set out for the Holy Land. 

Bones shook his head. “Died in the fire. It’s just me and Joanna now.”

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. Bones nodded. They didn’t talk the rest of the way back. As they passed the castle again, he took note of the straw dwellings and daub houses that had been set up against the sides and backs of the permanent housing. Livestock ambled around, searching for good grazing. He recognized two tenant farmers from the outlying region. They stood together, tending to two dozen or so sheep; likely the remainder of what Jim remembered to be very large herds. 

“Leonard!” A woman waved at them from the doorway of a building. “Leonard, Agnes can’t stop coughing.”

“Coming,” Bones called back. He turned to Jim and clasped his hand. “There are extra blankets in the chest in the corner of my room. Salvaged from the castle. Help yourself, alright? Supper’s served at the old tavern. Everyone eats there.”

“Thanks, Bones.”

McCoy trotted away. From an upper window, Jim heard the unmistakable sound of a sick child. He breathed and walked a couple of paces to sit on the lip of the well. Much sat next to him. 

“You alright?” Jim asked. Much looked up and nodded, his eyes quickly darting away again. 

“So,” Much started, sounding awkward, “you used to live here?”

Jim nodded. “I was the heir. The castle, farms, village—it’s all my responsibility. I bet it belongs to Nottingham now. Marcus would never allow the deed to remain in the name of Kirk.”

Deed or no deed, these people were his. In the absence of his parents, they had no one to turn to, no one to stand between them and the brutality of a tax that would slowly bleed them to death. He felt—not for the first time—guilty for trooping off to fight when he was needed here. Whether or not he had been aware of Marcus’ actions was not the point. He had left. He had abandoned them.

But he was back now. That didn’t absolve him of the failure; that was done and he could not change it. But a second chance was now before him. From every angle, the situation seemed hopeless. He looked up at the charred ruin of his family’s home. 

Good thing he didn’t believe in no-win scenarios.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm not dead. I'm rewriting this whole thing. If you're still interested in this story, I recommend going back to read the first two chapters again. A lot of things have been changed.


	4. The Call

Jim came onto the drove with his arms full of wood and his trousers hugging low on his hips from the weight of an axe in his belt. Much tromped beside him, laden with far more than he should carry. The boy had insisted that Jim load him up all the way, so now the wood teetered dangerously over his head, so high that he couldn’t see.

The days were cooling slowly. Harvest season would start soon… if there were anything to harvest. In the meantime, Jim and Much pulled their own weight. He never thought his rebellious little troublemaker would actually be of any use, but Much didn’t do anything halfway. 

At dawn and dusk, he took Much hunting. The first time he came back with a buck over his shoulders, the village fell completely silent in shocked fear. That was when he learned about Marcus’ law that prohibited any activity that involved entering the forest that straddled the Great North Road, except by license, which was issued by the sheriff.

The villagers had watched in frightful anxiety as the buck was cut up and added to the stew. But a full stomach seemed to cure their worries. Jim took it upon himself to dispose of the remains so that no wandering guards or watchmen had reason to suspect illegal hunting. 

Squirrels and rabbits were innocuous enough to bring back frequently and the stream by the castle held a few fish. Deer were harder to hide, but Jim was accomplished at field dressing and knew his way around the forest he had grown up in. Much, who had come out of his shell over the past two weeks, constantly asked questions about his childhood, the castle, and his journeys in the Holy Land, as though his life belonged in an adventure story.

He had seen the boy’s awe-filled eyes fall multiple times to the hilt of his sword and knew he was dying to see it in action. But all of Jim’s stories of the horror and bloodshed of war just seemed to rouse him even more. Eventually he stopped talking and put the boy to work, teaching him how to use a bow. He still couldn’t decide if those attempts were more hilarious or terrifying. 

The boy had far too much enthusiasm to ever be allowed a weapon. 

As they came near the village and Jim caught a momentary view of the well, his senses went on alert. He knelt and let his firewood tumble out into the tall grass on the side of the path. Without speaking, he grabbed Much and pulled. Blocks of wood went in all directions. 

“Hey! Why’d you do—Mmhf!” Jim covered the boy’s mouth and made a sign for silence. He moved forward in a crouch. Much followed, grumbling under his breath. 

Men in black tunics were hauling a table from the tavern, followed by several chairs. Drawn out by the commotion, people watched apprehensively from their doorways. Women crossed the street to stand in groups, talking with their eyes fixed on the guards. Ingrid, hunched under the weight of all of her years, pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. 

Jim reached back for Much, only to find him kneeling at his side. He motioned for him to follow and moved toward a cart sitting motionless just ahead. Through the spokes of one large wheel, he saw a man in a blue shirt and a brown mantel wind his way through the guards to sit at the table. Once he was comfortable and settled, the man beckoned sternly to the people now crowded between buildings and doorways, watching, but too anxious to approach. 

“Much.” 

“Yeah?”

“Go to my rucksack in the corner of McCoy’s room. There’s a pocket sewn into the inside—”

“Yeah, I know.” 

_Of course you do,_ Jim thought, not taking his eyes off the collector. “Take all of the coins out and give half of the shillings to Ingrid. Give five to Thomas, John, Abe, and William. The rest goes to Heloise to distribute among the widows.”

The scamp disappeared without a word. 

If he came forward now, the collector would want to know who he was. Even if he assumed an alias, the guards would be well within their right to detain him until they found proper records of his identity and then arrest him if they found none. Associating himself with the people in Riverside under those circumstances could only injure them more. 

As he looked on, he caught sight of Much again as the boy dashed from person to person. He had to appreciate how the kid moved: quick and silent, knowing exactly when to run and when to stop to avoid being seen. It was clear that the tart Much had stolen in Whitwick was not his first theft; he could have made a career criminal, had he not landed in Jim’s lap. 

The collector turned to withdraw a sheaf of papers from a chest that had been lowered onto the cobbles below the table and Jim seized his opportunity. Making sure no one was watching, he ran in a low crouch to the back of the tavern. Much met him behind the woodshed. 

“What now?” he whispered. 

“We watch and wait.” He settled back on his heels and fingered the axe in his belt. Much flopped down next to him. 

One by one, the villagers met with the collector. When they finished talking, the collector gestured forward a guard, who accompanied each villager to their home or shop and returned carrying sacks full of clothes, woolen yarn, animal skins, wooden bowls, spoons, benches, and stools. Thomas retrieved his wife’s washing board and their only bucket. 

The two tenant farmers, Hugo and Ralph, were each given 24 days of labor in payment of their debts. All of their sheep were taken.

Ralph pleaded as he was told to take off his shoes and mantel. The guard looked ready to demand his tunic and stockings as well, but the collector waved him off. Ralph went to stand next to Hugo, barefoot and diminished. 

Much kept looking at Jim expectantly. Evidently, he thought Jim would rush out, waving his sword around, making grand proclamations against tyranny. When he didn’t, Much’s face fell into a disappointed frown, as though he could guilt Jim into playing the hero. 

Jim ignored him, but he did feel a sense of bitterness. His people were losing everything and here he sat in the shade of the woodshed, watching like a timid child. When his father had collected rent each year, he had made sure the farmers and villagers would be able to live successfully on the remainder of their earnings. There was long-term planning and management to ensure the estate would prosper, even in the worst of circumstances. It was the mark of a good system when the greatest of men took care of the least. And his father had been a great, great man.

The collection took the majority of the day. Much, growing bored, alternated between whittling bits of wood and flicking pebbles at insects on the ground. Jim wished he had his sword. Not that he was going to launch himself at the guards like Much wanted, but it was a warm weight that he missed. In the long, hot pauses between coordinated attacks in the Crusade, he’d wasted hours cleaning and sharpening it and mending the belt and sheath. 

Now he was left to watch as both property and dignity were stripped from the villagers. He had no idea what to do. 

Just as the last man handed over coils of string, oiled leather pouches, and various files and scrapers from his workshop, a guard started gesturing towards Agatha, a middle-aged widow, who lived on alms and the kindnesses of others. Several men started forward, ready to go to her aid, but the other guards closed in, keeping them back. 

_Damn it_. Tugging the axe from his belt, Jim dropped it and strode forward to stand next to Agatha with his hands clasped behind his back casually. He sensed rather than heard Much slipping out behind him. The villagers all went tense as one and the guards looked momentarily puzzled by the sudden appearance. 

“Is there a problem?” he asked casually, discretely taking stock of the guards’ swords and knives. One of them carried a whip and a club. The guard closest grasped the hilt of his belt-dagger threateningly. 

“And who are you?” he asked, sizing him up. 

“Her son,” he replied. “Edgar, after my father.” Hands still behind his back, Jim twisted his signet ring off his finger and held it surreptitiously between his forefinger and thumb for Much, who palmed it with the practiced skill of a pickpocket and gave him a couple of pennies in return. No one gave any sign of seeing him. 

The collector consulted his list. “There is no son listed on the registry.”

Praying Agatha would not give herself away, he said, “I’ve only just arrived home. The Church took me in when I was little.”

It was a weak alibi. Children were often not recorded until baptism, since they so rarely survived past the age of five. And it was true, the Church took on boys at a very early age. But he lacked the proper cloth, which was a big give-away. 

Obviously the collector thought so, too. He raised a doubtful brow. “In that case, you’ll be able to tell me what this says.”

He held out the registry. Agatha stiffened beside him, but Jim took it. As soon as he saw the writing, he had to school his expression. This wasn’t a birth registry at all, but an occupation record. Agatha wasn’t even listed. Picking a line at random and trying not to smirk, he read, “Harry Achard, son of Henry, of Riverside, of the craft of harness making, owning one shop of seventy feet squared and such tools as appropriate to the work of harness making—”

“Very well,” the collector snapped, snatching the page back. He knew that Jim knew that Agatha was in the clear. It was a classic trick of the trade in tax collection to take advantage of illiteracy in rural communities. But it was also a tradition for peasants to band together in the face of fraud or deception. There was a reason tax collectors had a short life expectancy and traveled with extra guards for protection. 

The collector stood and the table and chairs disappeared back into the tavern. The guards loaded their plunder into the cart. The livestock they left behind to be collected at a later date. Slowly, the cart rolled back out of the village towards the Great North Road.

Beside him, Agatha—who had been holding her breath—exhaled, trembling. Then she turned and smacked his shoulder. “I’m not old enough to be your mama, Jim Kirk!”

Jim took her hand and dropped the extra pennies into her palm. “Just in case,” he said. 

…

There was no avoiding it now. Whatever good he and Much had done, they could not recoup after the losses caused by the collection. Several children were ill and malnourished. The craftsmen had lost their tools, without which they could not earn money. Ralph’s feet, already festering with the typical diseases carried by shepherds and peasants, would become infected without proper protection. A lame man could not perform debt labor, nor earn a living. 

Jim took inventory of his own possessions. His sword, belt knife, ring, and rucksack might fetch a large enough sum to feed the village for a time. His horse certainly could purchase food and medicine. But if other villages and towns were suffering as badly as they were, no one would willingly part with their necessities. You could not eat a knife or a sword. A ring could not keep you warm at night or cure a sick child. It seemed now that bread was worth more than its weight in gold. 

The villagers slowly dispersed for the night, going back to their homes. Jim, having spent the last two hours discussing rations with a group of men, remained in the tavern with McCoy. 

“Even if we found a place to buy what we need,” Bones was saying, “those supplies would only last us a set number of weeks or months. Then we’d be in the same situation all over again.”

“And worse,” Jim agreed grimly. “Because we’d be out of means to purchase more.”

McCoy nodded. They sat in silence for a long moment, listening to the distant murmurs of villagers bidding each other good night. “We’ve got to do something,” he said lowly. “It’s like they’re killing us slowly and we’re just letting them. One day those sick kids won’t wake up and we’ll all have let it happen without so much as an ‘if you please.’ A couple weeks later and the rest of us will follow, easy as anything.”

Jim dropped his head into his hands, scrubbing hard at his tired eyes. “I don’t see armed resistance working well,” he said. “In this whole village, I count one sword, a bow, a couple daggers, a hammer or two, and a set of bowyer knives. Not exactly ‘storm the keep’ material.”

“Not to mention we’d all be killed in about three seconds,” Boned mumbled grumpily. 

“I don’t see diplomatic negotiation going any better,” he replied. He rubbed his face again, sighing into his palms. “I’m a soldier. A knight. I’m no good at non-violent confrontation. We’d need a better man than me to talk it out.”

“We need Sarek Grayson,” Bones agreed. Jim nodded immediately, eyebrows raised in surprise. Sarek, Spock’s father, was an ambassador and, as far as Jim knew, was still in France. He wondered if the man knew about his wife’s death. But then he couldn’t imagine Spock not telling him, no matter how estranged they seemed to be. 

“What about Spock?” Jim asked, broaching a question he had been anxious to ask since Bones had told him Spock was still alive. “Where is he now?”

Bones glared a hole into the table. It took him along time to answer. “That bastard is the personal advisor to Prince Marcus.”

Jim froze. Spock, in the personal employ of Marcus, the man responsible for Amanda’s death. Fear for his safety, sadness for his loss, anger at his situation… the emotions gripped him in quick succession. He swallowed them all. Spock was, bar none, the most competent and accomplished person he had ever met. He would be fine. That didn’t stop the tendrils of worry from creeping up through him again. 

“I’m sure he knows what he’s doing,” Jim said at last. He took a deep breath. “I wish he weren’t alone.”

“Damn it,” Bones growled. “How can you defend him? People are dying—his mother, your family, _my wife_ —!”

“I know Spock.” The idea of a traitorous Spock was ludicrous to the extreme. That didn’t make losing his parents any easier, but that wasn’t Spock’s fault. 

Bones grimaced in a way that made it plain that he didn’t believe Jim, but didn’t say anything. 

“Look on the bright side,” Jim told him. 

“What’s that?”

“If Spock is on the inside,” Jim said, “then we’ve already got the best man on the job.”

Bones opened his mouth to retort, protest and frustration all over his face, when a man came jogging into the tavern. “Leonard! You gotta come! Agnes is—”

“Coming.” He gave Jim one last irritated look and followed the man out into the twilight. 

Alone at the table, Jim propped his cheek on one hand and drew patterns on the pitted wood. He had not seen Spock in nearly seven years. They had said goodbye awkwardly, neither knowing what the other was thinking. But that hadn’t stopped Spock’s voice, full of the condescending disapproval that Jim always hated, ringing in his head whenever his moral compass malfunctioned. Somehow Spock had become his moral guide, offering logical advice and constantly chiding his behavior like a mother hen with stupid hair and dangerous eyebrows. 

Jim snorted softly, a smile creasing his mouth for the first time that day. He wondered what Spock was now—if he still looked like a monastery reject, or if he had finally gotten his hair cut properly. Six years at war had wrought changes in Jim that he had never anticipated. There were scars that felt like they would never heal—inside and out. The cocky arrogance he’d carried like a badge all through his youth had been dashed to bits on the scorching sand, replaced with heavy wisdom he carried with effort. He had forgotten how to laugh, weak and bitter, then regained the strength to laugh in spite of it all. 

Surely Spock had changed as well, grown more book-ish and stern, like his father. The thought made him smile more broadly. People like Bones had never been able to see it, but Spock had a cheeky side. He could whip out sarcasm and snark with speed and fire that made their childhood enemies quail. At those times, teenaged-Jim always smirked smugly until Spock wiped the board with him at chess. 

Now Spock stood alone in a hostile court, a sheep in wolf’s clothing among lions and foxes. He could not imagine Spock as Marcus’ toady, self-serving advisor, as Bones seemed to think. On the contrary, he saw the Spock he’d always known: honorable, self-sacrificing, and brave, trying to put himself between danger and those he cared about. He’d done it often enough for Jim as children that it didn’t take any stretch of the imagination to see an adult Spock doing the same. 

Sitting here, alone, he wished for Spock’s advice more than ever. But instead of logic, his own reckless thoughts came crashing through. His people were desperate. He could not ask them to fight for themselves and be killed for their effort. But he could fight for them. 

Of all of the options he had considered, there was only one that might work. The thought made him cringe. As much as he cheated and fooled around, he had never, never been a thief. He had been raised to a certain standard… but his family was dead. The people who relied on him, the people his mother and father had died for, were still here. 

Which was the greater sin? Allowing his people to suffer to save his moral high ground, or sacrificing his values to protect the weak from a tyrant? Not that Jim followed any religious path, but the choice he faced now would change his life for ever. 

Would it be too much to ask himself to let go of his nobility, his reputation, his upbringing, to help them now? No. No, he would do what was necessary to save them. 

All at once, Much’s fantasy image of Jim, waving his sword around, popped into his head and he groaned mutely. Whatever happened, he wouldn’t take the kid with him. He didn’t need any more ridiculously inflated ideas. 

He had just cleared the doorway of the tavern when—

“Where’re you goin’?” Much asked, appearing from thin air. 

Damn it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in the process of applying to PhD programs. It's a good thing I love my field.


End file.
